


The Angel of Mons

by HolRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Angel miracles, Angry Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Missing Scene, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 00:41:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21027431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolRose/pseuds/HolRose
Summary: London during the biggest raid of the Blitz so far, an angel and a demon stand in the ruins of a bombed out church. What happens after that 'lift home'?





	The Angel of Mons

**London, 11th May 1941**

The smoke cleared slowly as he stood there in the ruins of what had been a rather fine church, clutching the leather bag to his chest, eyes misty.

‘I said, lift home, Angel?’ Crowley had halted his progress towards the Bentley parked in the street near the now twisted church railings, turned and put the question again when he realised that Aziraphale was not following behind him.

‘Ah, yes, that would be very helpful, thank you.’

Aziraphale hastily caught up with Crowley, clambering over the smoking rubble and finding his way to the street. The bombing was heavy tonight and the smell of plaster dust permeated the air. Searchlights were visible in the distance but the street around them was cloaked with the usual blackout gloom. Aziraphale opened the car door after it had been unlocked by a snap of Crowley’s fingers and settled into the passenger seat, placing the bag of his precious books on his lap. He looked across at Crowley as he started the car and pulled out into the darkened street. The Bentley’s headlamps remained unlit, the demon not needing them to see, and they were soon heading through the murky night towards Soho.

‘So, you have an automobile, how long have you been driving? I have never tried it myself. Do you like it..?

He realised he was babbling and stopped, embarrassed and waiting for a response. Crowley tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove and said, casually, ‘Got this beauty in 1926, I love it, great fun, stylish too’

‘I must thank you again my dear, for the books, these are irreplaceable, I thought they were lost…’

Crowley’s eyes remain on the road. ‘Not a problem, Angel, I knew you would be wanting them, least I could do.’

Aziraphale fell silent, watching the streets glide by. It was a novel sensation this being driven, quite different from a bus or tramcar. Part of his mind was in turmoil with emotions that had suddenly become evident to him although he was aware that he was, to an extent, being disingenuous with himself, something he was rather good at.

He had experienced an epiphany of sorts in the rubble of that church. Crowley had appeared in the proverbial nick of time to save him from, as he put it, making a fool of himself. He had been foolish, there was no doubt about that and this was keenly humiliating to him, as he had thought previously that he was being particularly clever. The feelings of embarrassment at this humiliation were sharp but this emotion took a backseat to the overwhelmingly huge realisation that he loved Crowley. He also realised, with a pang of dismay that he had probably been working up to this for some time.

Aziraphale was accustomed to compromising his proper behaviour as an angel, he’d been doing it for a very long time now, as long as he and Crowley had been operating according to ‘The Arrangement’. He knew that his angelic colleagues would be horrified at the agreement he had with a demon to get their respective work done in a way that was convenient to both of them. He had performed minor temptations and Crowley had worked small miracles. The end result was the same, yes, but he knew that it would not be looked upon in this way by his angelic cohort, were they ever to find out. In fact, their whole friendship would be anathema to Gabriel and the rest. Aziraphale was not Fallen, he still believed that he was a good angel. He still felt Her love and loved the whole of creation, but he now knew that there was a bit of creation that he loved specifically, with a _particular_ love, deep in in his heart. The fact that the object of that love was one of the Fallen was the problem. To the Principality Aziraphale, this coalescence of his feelings was both the best and the worst of news.

The Bentley glided to a stop outside the bookshop and Aziraphale reached to open the car door. He paused and looked at Crowley who had one hand on the steering wheel, the other on his thigh as he turned to look back across at him, eyes invisible behind his usual dark glasses. Aziraphale swallowed as he took in the demon’s sharp, clever, beautiful face and he gave in to what he really wanted.

‘Would you care to come in for a while my dear, have a glass of wine with me, by way of thanks for all you have done tonight?’

He twitched his lips, looking at his lap to avoid meeting the demon’s eyes in case he guessed somehow what was on his mind. He blushed at the thought, all of this in a few seconds.

If Crowley noticed his discomfiture, he didn’t say. ‘That would be nice Angel, I could do with the company to be honest. This war, it’s been horrible over the last few months.’

Aziraphale unlocked the bookshop doors with a gesture and walked into the main part of the shop, going to the windows to make sure the blackout blinds were fully closed before he put any lights on. Crowley followed him into the shop and looked round. It was very different from how he remembered it. Many of the previously tightly stacked shelves were empty and the ones nearest the front of the shop were loaded with cheap paperbacks, their spines a riot of lurid colours.

‘Oh Angel, what have you done? The books, where are they?’

‘Ah, yes, I have changed the shop. I had the rare books taken to a slate quarry in North Wales for the duration. I was lucky enough to get them on to a consignment going from the National Gallery. I do have some contacts in the art world you know. It was such a relief to get them safe.’

He gestured to the roof of the building, the fragile cupola above them. The low thuds and rumbles of bombs falling elsewhere in the city could still be heard occasionally outside.

‘I can try to protect the shop but I can’t guarantee that it won’t be hit directly. As you can see, I have filled up some of the space with paperbacks, people need entertainment at a time like this.’ He smiled at Crowley ‘I have become a proper bookseller for now. I give out sweets to the local children when I can get hold of any and people meet here and chat about their reading during the days. It all helps with morale. At night I go out with the ARP when I can...‘ He looked flustered and rolled his eyes, ‘Listen to me rattling on about myself, go on through and I’ll get the wine. I know I have a decent bottle here somewhere’

He hurried through to the back of the shop where a few bottles were tucked away under a shelf and was opening one with a corkscrew when Crowley joined him.

‘What have you been up to?’ asked Aziraphale as he took two glasses from a small cupboard and wiped them with a cloth. He wanted to talk, get back to normal, dismiss the traitorous thoughts that were skipping around his head when he looked at Crowley. He was glad to have his friend here, pleased that their old quarrel over holy water was forgotten and that was enough, for now. There was a war on, he was tired, they both had enough to be dealing with without any further complications relating to his unruly feelings.

‘Well… stuff here and there, bit of work with British Counter Intelligence, thwarting the Nazis, you know. I was over in France for a while doing some work to help the Resistance there late last year. I move around…’ he tailed off.

‘How does that go down with your head office, surely you have been doing actual _good_ with work like that. Isn’t that something that would be officially frowned upon by your, er, the people you report to?’ Aziraphale poured the wine and looked over at Crowley.

‘They don’t really notice at the moment, so I can pretty much justify doing anything I care to.’ Crowley accepted the glass of wine passed across to him by Aziraphale and took his customary seat on the small velvet sofa.

Crowley had been a free agent on earth since the war started in fact. He did file creatively worded reports about his activities but no-one was reading them and he knew that this was the case. Hell was notoriously difficult to manage during a global human conflict. The intensity of all the raw evil on the earth caused problems for the infernal administration. All the minor demons and many of the damned became restive when the overspill of feelings from the prevailing human evil reached Hell. Beelzebub and the Dukes of Hell had their hands full dealing with the tumult that was the result. This kept them occupied, that and the _influx_ of course. Dagon had been forced to create a completely new filing system for the increase in arrivals and an extra pit had been mined to take the overflow. Something similar was happening in Heaven too, however, Aziraphale was not as autonomous as Crowley, and there was a reason for that.

‘Cheers, Angel, this is nice, thank you for suggesting it, said the demon, quietly.

Crowley was sombre, his high spirits from before absent now that he was alone with his friend. He looked at Aziraphale now that he could see him properly in the soft light of the bookshop lamps. The angel looked tired and, yes, definitely thinner, the effects of rationing he supposed. Knowing Aziraphale, he would not care to eat well when others could not do likewise.

‘Did you feel that it was best to stay in London, Angel, rather than doing your good works in Europe or further afield?’

Aziraphale took a mouthful of wine, ‘It is not the best vintage by any means, but it is very welcome all the same.’ He paused and his soft blue eyes looked pained, ‘I know what is going on in Europe, Crowley, evil beyond even Hell’s ability to comprehend it. I would like to be further afield doing what I can to ameliorate it. It is scarcely comprehensible what the humans are doing to each other.’ His eyes dimmed and he looked unspeakably weary, ‘But I can’t leave here, I am not permitted to.’ he said, his speech clipped.

‘You what? Why?’ Crowley looked surprised and indignant on Aziraphale’s behalf. ‘Is this something to do with that celestial idiot Gabriel?’

‘Well, yes, but it is something to do with me too, something I did. It relates to things that happened in the Great War. It was an accident, not really my fault as it happens, but I was blamed and there was a huge fuss and I was told afterwards that in time of conflict I was to confine myself to civilian operations. So I do what I can here. You saw my latest attempt to do some good this evening,’ He made a wry face and Crowley laughed. ‘Otherwise, London has seen such distress during the Blitz, I have been kept very busy with bombing victims. I specialise in shell shock cases, I always have.’ He looked steadily across at Crowley, head tilted up with a quiet defiance, remembering the unfairness of what had happened.

‘I am sorry Angel, I don’t understand, what happened?

‘To put it bluntly, Crowley, I was the Angel of Mons.’

***

After the declaration of war in August 1914, Aziraphale was determined to do something constructive to help the souls who were going to be fighting in Europe. From what he had been reading in the newspapers and hearing from friends in London, this conflict was likely to be the biggest and bloodiest that the world had ever seen. The development over recent years of better and more efficient armaments including heavy ordnance and improved machine gun design gave men the means to wreak destruction against their enemies on a scale previously unthought-of.

Human beings had their own grace and Aziraphale loved them. He knew that they were capable, on occasion, of boundless compassion, love and self-sacrifice. However, he was also aware that their natures had just as large a capacity for unbelievable enmity, violence and cruelty. Aziraphale had been involved in the Boer War and previous conflicts in Afghanistan, The Crimea and others in the centuries before them. He knew exactly what war entailed: death or mutilation to those directly involved and endless distress to those either left behind or caught in the crossfire. His only aim was to prevent suffering. He would not be taking sides and intended to help anyone he came across who was in need, seeing no distinction between fighting men from one country or another.

As before, he closed up his Soho bookshop, putting his books into storage and leaving the keys with a trustworthy human friend. There was nothing to regret leaving behind, well, one thing perhaps, but he hadn’t seen Crowley since 1862 and believed that his demon friend was no longer speaking to him and had other friends he preferred to _fraternise_ with. He travelled to France initially, then on to Belgium, to see where he could be most useful.

His plan to start with was to join the ranks of the British Royal Army Medical Corps unobtrusively, blending in during the thick of battle and invoking minor miracles to ensure that he was accepted as just another Private. He would work as a stretcher-bearer, which gave him the opportunity to do the most good. He had to be careful, the Army was extremely well organised and senior staff were likely to notice anything out of place, but if he timed it right, he could offer assistance when things were confused and melt away once each engagement ended. He thought he might do similar things in the French and German armies, once he had discovered which their medical division was. He began with the British army as that had been the easiest to research whilst he was in London.

All went as he had planned initially. He found himself at Mons on the 22nd of August, where the first major engagement of Allied troops against the forces of the German army was expected to commence the next day. The town of Mons itself was full of the troops of the British Expeditionary Force, preparing for battle. There were men from the various divisions, the cyclists of the Bicycle Reconnaissance Team, trucks, numerous horses and the vehicles that would make up the Ambulance Station from which the medical team of the RAMC would operate. Earthworks had been started near to the canal that separated the Allied troops from their German counterparts, and the heaps of soil dug out so far lay alongside where the troops were resting; drinking tea, cracking jokes, smoking and talking. They were all professional soldiers and morale was high. The war was just beginning and everyone expected it to all be over by Christmas. Aziraphale found it relatively easy to mingle with the soldiers in the uniform he had created for himself, cloaking his face with a minor miracle that ensured that anyone looking at him would immediately get the impression he was someone they half knew, and forget all about him straight afterwards.

The following day the battle began in earnest. There was a heavy bombardment beginning in the early hours of the morning from the German gun emplacements across the water. Cavalry and infantrymen were in formation, defending a wide loop in the Mons-Condé canal that formed the front line and the four bridges that spanned it. The bombardment had churned the countryside into mud in many places and there were already shell holes dotted here and there on the landscape filling with water from the aquifer below. It was not long before there were calls for stretchers to take the wounded away from the front line and the RAMC personnel were soon busy tending to the first casualties of the day.

This battle was loud. There was the boom of the big guns, the sound of shells overhead, the constant rattle of rifle fire and the intermittent staccato burst of sound from the Vickers guns. This was new for Aziraphale, he remembered the sound of field artillery, rifle fire and the shouting and cries of men and horses in battle but the heavy howitzers and machine guns were an additional infernal noise. It was difficult to think, even for an angel. He stopped thinking and acted on instinct, responding to the orders given him and working as hard as he was able alongside the other Medical Corps personnel.

After many hours of pushing forward, the British troops began to fall back under an assault from the superior numbers of the German First Army. At one point, there was a lull in the fighting and a flurry of activity to get as many wounded men to the Ambulance Station as possible. Aziraphale was ordered to try to locate a man who had been heard calling out from one of the shell holes. He was running as fast as he was able, slipping in the freshly churned mud when he caught a whiff of something, a smell that wasn’t coming from the guns of the battle or the newly turned earth beneath his feet. Evil, something demonic was here, and very near too. He looked around, heart in his mouth, dreading that it might be Crowley in some incarnation or other, here to make trouble. He had never met Crowley when he had been involved in any conflict and had always received the impression from him that actual combat was something he tried to avoid, preferring more subtle methods of temptation and foment. He stopped and scanned around quickly and then spotted a figure that didn’t quite fit. It was skulking by a ditch, dressed in a uniform but nothing any self-respecting soldier would wear, more like a parody of army clothing, ragged and soiled with buttons missing. The white face had dark eyes and scarred cheeks and was topped with an unruly thatch of pale hair. The eyes homed-in on him, he had been seen by this thing and it was actually smiling at him. It raised its hand, there was a screaming noise and then everything went white for a moment and he felt himself being lifted up into the air.

***

Hastur was bored. Senior demons detested human war, it left them nothing whatever to do apart from endless administrative duties. They were forbidden by ancient law from getting involved in human conflicts. The idiotic Creator had made it very clear that She wanted the humans to be able to exercise their free will unhindered in these circumstances and Beelzebub was strict about following this line to the letter. There was no point in trying to carry out small acts of evil because they disappeared in the overwhelming amount of unpleasantness that the humans were busy inflicting on each other. Then there was the issue of the increased flow of souls into torment, which just created paperwork and put Dagon and her staff in the foulest of moods. Space was currently being cleared for a new pit as this latest war looked like it was going to be a biggie. The other problem was that, once a decent sized war got going, evil just rippled across the earth and swamped everyone. Even for a demon it could be overwhelming. It had been like that during the Thirty Years War, over thirty bloody years of feeling that something like a cross between toothache and a stress headache had taken residence right through the demonic corporation. It had become unbearable after about 10 years and everyone had been unbelievably tetchy, with the discorporation of lesser demons by those above them in fits of rage happening at an unprecedented rate. That was the other thing, the imps and lesser demons all became very worked up during wars and Measures had to be taken to _settle them down_. Beelzebub’s swarms of infernal insects had never been so busy.

Going to the surface of the earth during a human war was strictly forbidden. It was an absolute no-no and no-one but an idiot or someone who really didn’t give a shit for Beelzebub and their bloody petty rules would have even considered it. Which brings us back to Hastur and his ennui. If he saw another one of Dagon’s forms, he was going to have one of his Special Screeching Fits. There was an idea, writhing like a maggot in Hastur’s singularly nasty mind. He knew that it was likely that the first big battle of the latest human war was going to begin today.

Hastur really liked human weapons. He had been full of a snarling admiration when the first proper gun had been invented and had stolen one and played with it, admiring the will to destroy that had gone into making it. After this, he kept a keen eye on the development of munitions, marvelling as the technology had improved, approving of the desire on the part of the designers to make killing faster and more efficient. He swooned over the clever design of Armstrong’s rifled field gun, so much better than a simple cannon. He was bowled over by the first hand gun and really appreciated it when Samuel Colt patented his revolver in 1836. He had heard about the heavy field howitzers and improved machine guns that were being employed by both sides in this latest spat and he very much wanted to go up and take a look at the devastation that was likely to be wreaked in an engagement between two sets of professional soldiers armed in this way.

Hastur was also very fond of battlefields, especially after the people who were still able to walk had gone away. There was good eating to be had, even if you did have to fight the crows for the eyeballs on occasion. His maggots liked a good bit of human carrion. He had broken the rules before and he was intending to do it again that day. He sidled off and walked to a part of Hell that was quieter and drilled himself into the earth, homed in on the relevant region of Belgium and grinned as he changed into something that might help him blend-in on the battlefield, sort of, if nobody who was alive looked too closely.

Hastur emerged from the earth unnoticed in the side of a shell hole. He looked about him appreciating the usual chaos and extreme noise of battle. Infantrymen were running and shouting, and he was tickled at the sight of cavalrymen with sabres of all things fighting on the same field of combat as men armed with machine guns. He watched for a while, enjoying the carnage, unseen by any of the combatants. Those British soldiers really were extremely fast at re-loading their rifles, he was impressed. Shells screamed past, making a terrific crump noise on impact, the shock waves from their landing shaking the earth. Then he felt something ethereal nearby. He looked around and there it was, that pathetic Principality with the pretty face, all blond and pink, running along in uniform with a stretcher tucked awkwardly under its arm. He remembered this one, the angel that _upstairs_ had left on earth to look after the humans, just like that spineless flash git Crawley was supposed to be up here tempting them. He screwed up his scarred face in contempt. He would love to see that pretty face lopsided with hellfire, watch it cry and regret coming here to a battlefield to do _good_. Hastur spat and raised his arm, thinking that he might even get a commendation for ruining an angel.

Hastur threw his fireball at the exact same moment as a howitzer shell exploded on the field between the angel and the demon. The fireball and shell burst collided in the air, creating a percussive shock wave composed of both occult and physical forces. The resulting momentum fired Aziraphale into the ethereal and just as quickly, bounced him back into the physical world again. In the split second of the transition he changed, his angelic nature acting instinctively to protect him by taking him back to what might be described as his default setting. Hastur saw what had happened and hesitated, he wasn’t sure he was up to an actual fight with an angel and, what’s more, he didn’t want to signal his presence here to Hell any more than he had already. One fireball he could probably get away with, an actual fight might be very different. He spun round and drilled himself back into the earth, laughing at the difficult situation he was leaving the angel in as he returned to the infernal regions.

***

Aziraphale landed back on his feet with a squelch and his sight came back to him. He was aware of feeling different, lighter, and he had something in his hand that wasn’t the stretcher pole that he had previously been carrying. He looked down at his feet and saw his own bare legs, calf deep in the mud, above them a fine robe with gold detailing along the sleeves and down both sides. Oh Lord, _his wings were out_. What in Heaven’s name could have happened? He looked at his hand. He was carrying a flaming sword, not _the_ flaming sword but another one, standard issue for when the Almighty sent someone down to be ‘The Angel of The Lord’, like that time with the shepherds when the Christ was born. He was standing in a Belgian battlefield in 1914 manifesting as a stereotypical angel with a flaming sword and people were starting to stare at him. He panicked for a few seconds and then realised he was going to have to brazen this one out until he could miracle himself away and change back into his uniform.

The British soldiers were beginning to retreat. Although they had pressed the German First Army hard and inflicted many casualties, the superiority in numbers of the German forces was starting to show. This hadn’t been helped by the fact that the French Fifth Army had decided to retreat suddenly, exposing the forces on the British right flank to the German guns. The decision had been made by the top brass to retire from the salient at the canal and reconsolidate south of the town of Mons. The retreating troops were vulnerable and being pursued by their enemy as they tried to move away in an orderly fashion. A platoon of them looked as if they were about to be cut off and slaughtered by the advancing German forces. Aziraphale manifested himself as large as he was able to and spread his wings, brandishing the sword and looking stern. The advancing German troops took one look at him, dropped their rifles and ran back towards the canal. He turned back, blessed the speechless platoon in front of him, bowed and disappeared.

Aziraphale reappeared at the side of the battlefield in a small coppice of pine trees, dressed once more in his RAMC uniform. He was shaken. That was about the worst thing that could have happened. He hoped that the men who had seen him would put it down to a hallucination owing to the stress of battle and that it would fade from their memories. He hoped he could get away before someone from Head Office tracked him down to ask what in Her name he thought he had been doing. He had absolutely no idea that the few minutes he had appeared in his angelic form would become one of the most enduring legends of the First World War.

***

Aziraphale continued with his plan of helping those that needed him during the Great War. He moved around as he had intended to do, working with various medical organisations including the St John’s Ambulance, the Friends Ambulance Unit and the British Red Cross. He was strong and could work hard. He carried the wounded and tended to their broken bodies, his lack of squeamishness allowing him to help in cases that defeated some of his colleagues. He was aware that he could not be seen to be healing physical wounds, so apart from sorting out some internal injuries and soothing away pain, he concentrated on those whose minds had been broken by the experience of war.

Many of the young men who fought in France, Flanders and other theatres of this war were damaged mentally by the lethal combination of long interludes of inactivity spent practising their drill, polishing boots and scrubbing webbing, cleaning munitions and writing letters home, punctuated by periods of constant noise and unrelenting terror on the front line. The extreme discomfort of trench warfare only added to this cocktail of distress, so it was not surprising that so many struggled with their mental health. It was called shell shock or neurasthenia by those of an understanding disposition, and cowardice by those who had no time for what they regarded as an imaginary malady. This attitude on the part of some army personnel made Aziraphale’s work even more necessary as those found guilty of cowardice were shot at dawn and there was often no leniency given to men and boys who had lost their minds to the stress of war. Some young men came to Aziraphale’s attention far too late for him to be able to do anything more than provide oblivion for them for a short time. Others he was able to help, reaching into their troubled minds and healing them. He found this work satisfying, it scratched the itch he had to be doing the best he could for the beings he loved in their time of strife.

He was stoical and cheerful while he worked and was appreciated by the people he worked alongside, even if they didn’t ever know his name or remember him after he moved on. He saw sights that horrified him and wondered constantly how such a fine race was able to inflict so much misery on its own. The whole endeavour reminded him of Abraham and Isaac and how he had wept then, wept at the notion of God testing a father by asking him to kill his own son. And here he was and the fathers of the world were sacrificing their sons, and he still had no answer to the question why. He did not weep whilst at the war, at least not until he heard that the poet Owen had been killed, eleven days before the Armistice. He wept then, and again on the eleventh day of the eleventh month. And then it was all over, and he went home.

***

Gabriel had been furious when he caught up with Aziraphale at his bookshop in December 1918. Heaven had been busy, too busy at the time to follow up the initial reports of an angel having been seen on a battlefield, but now things had settled and he was there to deliver the lecture. Aziraphale was sure that he was about to be demoted, again, but once Gabriel had stopped shouting, he had admitted that the actual consequences had been quite positive. Apparently, the story had spread like wildfire and far more soldiers were claiming to have seen the heavenly visitation than could possibly have done so. It was reported in all the British newspapers and had the effect of both boosting morale and encouraging stronger belief in God, which was why Aziraphale was not to be actually punished, only reprimanded. Gabriel was quite clear though, the Principality was not to work in a war zone again. Should there be another conflict, he was to stay with the civilian population and do good works for their benefit. Nothing was said about the work he had actually done for his four years overseas, it was as if heaven had not noticed that. Aziraphale did his best to push down his feelings of resentment at this. It wasn’t that he wanted praise he told himself, it was just that it always seemed that the things he did wrong were picked up on but everything else he did went unnoticed. He hoped God had seen, and assumed She must have done, that was good enough.

***

‘That is why I am so grateful to you for coming to my rescue this evening Crowley. I really could not afford another embarrassing mistake, and if I had been discorporated, I suspect, forgive me, but that there would have been hell to pay.’ Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who was staring at him, moved and astonished.

‘I had no idea Angel, that is extraordinary. It was Hastur, of course, he tried to attack you and something odd must have happened when the fireball hit the backwash from the exploding shell. I shall have his hide when I see him again. He shouldn’t have been on the earth during war, we have rules covering that and Beelzebub is very strict about it.’

He continued to gaze at Aziraphale, ‘You really are remarkable sometimes Angel,’ he said, his voice warm, ‘you must have been a touch-stone for so many people after that.’

‘I felt like a fool, it wasn’t planned and I can take no credit for it, whatever its unforeseen benefits. I have tried to forget it and when I do remember that time, I think of the boys who fought and the men and women I worked alongside, those are the enduring memories for me.’ He looked up and smiled, ‘I am sorry, I didn’t intend to sound so sharp, I know you mean to be kind, and I am grateful for it.’

‘I was in Russia at that time, I was over there from 1905.’ said Crowley, moodily, staring into his wine, ‘I spent a lot of time with Stalin. Complete waste of time of course, he didn’t need any input from me at all to become the kind of dangerous maniac that he is. It was all him, I just drank the vodka and listened to him going on about his various obsessions.’ He finished his wine and placed the glass on the floor.

‘Crowley’, said Aziraphale in a small voice, ‘I am very glad we are friends again, can we promise not to lose touch with each other for so long again, and shake hands on it?’

‘I’m glad too, Aziraphale,’ Crowley got up from his seat on the sofa and crossed to where the angel sat in his chair, offering him his right hand. Aziraphale took it and Crowley pulled him up and into his arms. Aziraphale gasped slightly and then sank into the embrace, too tired, tipsy and melancholy to put up any resistance. They held each other and there was a silence, with the only sound their breathing and two hearts beating.

‘I care about you Angel,’ came Crowley’s voice in Aziraphale’s ear at last, ‘you are my best friend, you should know that. Whatever I might have said in the past and whatever I might say in the future when I am being difficult, always remember that. There has never been anyone else that comes close to you.’

Aziraphale froze at these words for a moment, and then found the courage to reciprocate.

‘I feel the same, dear Crowley, you are never far from my thoughts, you know you will always be welcome here. I shall worry while you are away doing whatever you do. Please remember that I care for you very much and I am always here for you, and come back when you can.’ He felt on the verge of tears, it had been an emotional night for him.

They held each other for a little while longer and then gently let each other go, Crowley looking at the floor and Aziraphale up at the ceiling as each eased back into their usual attitude and facial expression. Both felt comforted and able to face anew the continuing challenge of their lives on this turbulent planet after the unexpected sweetness of the warmth they had shared.

It was getting light and the noise of the bombing had ceased some time ago. The sound of the all-clear siren wailed through the air, it was time to start the new day.

They bade each other goodbye and Crowley gave Aziraphale a parting wave as he went out to the Bentley.

Neither had been entirely honest about the depth of their feelings for the other but both knew that it was all that they dare say under the circumstances in which they found themselves. During this night of the longest raid of the Blitz so far, they had found comfort in one another’s company and renewed their friendship, and that was enough, for now.

**Author's Note:**

> It is canon that Aziraphale and Crowley don't meet between 1862, when they quarrel over holy water, and 1941 when Crowley rescues Aziraphale from Nazi agents working in London. I was wondering what they might have been up to in this time and in particular, during the First World War. Then I remembered the story of the Angel of Mons and started to imagine which particular angel that might have been and why...  
Part of this work was inspired by Wilfred Owen's poem, 'The parable of the old man and the young'.


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